


The Problem with the Green Light

by IntoBeyondDarkness



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Depression, Dreams, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Green Light, Help, Hope, Love, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Instability, Money, Party, Poverty, Rags to Riches, Relationship Problems, Unrequited Love, Wealth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoBeyondDarkness/pseuds/IntoBeyondDarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which case the green light is defective and doesn't always live up to its full potential.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

  
_The_ _**loneliest** _ _moment in someone's_ _**life** _ _is when they are_ _**watching** _ _their_ _**whole** _ _world fall_ _**apart** _ _, and all they can do is stare_ _**blankly** _ _. –The_ _**Great** _ _Gatsby._   


It was a beautiful night, just perfect. His feet didn't even slip when he walked further out onto the dock. It was a cool breeze out, not at all chilly. It was a nice night. He feared it wouldn't be— with the rain and all yesterday- but the sky cleared up nicely, just like the paper said it would.  _The Journal_ was his favorite after all. They did have nice things to say about him, always inquiring on what nice things he had. He liked having those things, those nice, modern things.

On these nights he'd come out for hours, just to watch—just to look. The wide open night, endless with its field of burning stars—but not this night. Tonight the dark was cleared out, not a star in sight. The sky was voided of light. Even the moon seemed to be playing this childish game of  _hide and seek._

But tonight, like every night he searched for something else— something of more promise and splendor than that can ever be given by a simple flaming star or cool moon. This was the thing he in fact lived for, what helped his life to go on, to inspire him to accomplish more great things, more prominent and nice things. This gave him everything, and for that he was grateful. He was, maybe even, in love with it. It had a power on a person, a great power to turn heads when looked at. It ached a peak at its wonder from the occasional mailman and passerby.

In a way, it was Daisy. He dreamt of her, late at night, whenever he closed his eyes, really. She was always on his mind, which he loved. Most nights he couldn't even sleep just thinking of the life they'll one day have together, and what they'd do together. That last thought varied in its meaning, but got down to the most beautiful of things they could accomplish, what they could make- what they could  _have_ in the form of the tiny patter of feet and a wail to be fed.

Tonight he felt close, so unbelievably close to her at that moment. She left this evening and he held onto her hand only for her to pull away and promise she'd be back. Her hand left his but it was his mind that remained without as much luck.

This led to nights of aimless wandering and giddy thoughts that led to smiling, deep breaths and then he would look up to find it. It greeted him in slow, timed, blinks.

A simple lifting of the arm and he could reach up to try and grasp it. He'd stay like that for a while, but then something happened and the timing stopped. It didn't blink anymore and he waited. It still didn't blink and he still waited, and then—

He stood there in something close to a shock, his outstretched hand was frozen in front of him. That wasn't at all right. Surely he must have been seeing things, but there was the problem. He wasn't seeing anything at all. He saw a heavy darkness spread out before him and all of nothing.

Gatsby closed his hand and slowly set it down to fall at his side. He looked down to his feet, shifting his weight on the wooden boards. He looked up again, hopefully. Maybe the poor thing was just stuck. It'll start back up again, he just had to be patient, of course.

So he waited, rocking back and forth on his heels, hands in his pockets. After meaningless glances at his clock in which after each glance he wasn't even really looking at the hash marks, a few seconds of failing to whistle a tune, tugging on the collar of his suit that was suddenly too tight and patting out wrinkles just in case he was to be seen by someone for some reason. However, minutes passed before he looked up again.

His silence echoed through the quiet of the night, he turned away from the water just thinking—but found that he couldn't. He was a bit surprised only seconds later when a thought came to mind.

The old ground keep's cottage stood peacefully in the shadows of his palace and a name registered slowly into his thoughts until it became a force that beat out into the open. " _Nick_."


	2. Chapter 2

A few moments ago, I was asleep and dreading the next morning that I'd have to pick myself up and head off to the city. I was never worth a decent stroke of work, no one was able to say otherwise. If they tried, they were foolish. For lack of other ways to sum up what I'm saying, I was just completely  _horrible_  at my job. I didn't want to do it, didn't feel like doing it, wasn't worth doing it, couldn't bring myself to find so much as a reason to keep doing it. Well, of course there was only one reason, one crucial reason. A reason that made sure I dragged myself out of bed, most of the time without breakfast, and got me running up stairs with an empty briefcase-

-I needed money.

I was without in this matter, and everyone I acquainted myself with- Jordan Baker, my cousin Daisy and her husband Tom Buchanan, Mr. Gatsby and even Klipspringer- I did see the musical man from time to time- They were all within on this one.

I wasn't generically one to complain really, of anything. I didn't feel less of them or hate them or feel any other kind of idiotic emotion because they all had more money than I did and spent so much so freely. I wasn't and never will be that way. Why should I be?

Only foolish people got into disputes over something as common as money. It came and went, sometimes stayed longer than it needed to, or even disappeared too quickly.

I never got upset when someone rubbed their wealth in my face, most of the time the person didn't really intend to. They're just so absorbed and happy with everything they have that they can't help but brag about it.

I don't blame Ms. Baker when she insists on paying on my cab rides home when I'm with her, although I could have very well paid on my own.

I don't blame Daisy for asking me to stay with her at her ' _much nicer and more lavish house_ ', as she had offered. She had said my home was ' _cute_ ' and that my life was ' _adorable_ '. I did and still do know what she meant by those two terms. With her house being extravagant and her life being lovely, it was only natural that mine were downgraded to the phrases ' _cute_ ' and ' _adorable_ '.

I didn't blame Gatsby when he pondered into my business affairs, offered me some of his work and then the next morning paid a bunch of people to fix up my yard for me, I guess the sight just bothered him a lot. Now that I think of it, my lawn was a bit dreadful. It was my fault, I should have fixed it up when I moved in or maybe paid someone. I could have, if I wanted to.

I also don't blame him for having my whole living room rearranged and for him bringing over so many things that outmatched my simple tea things tenfold. He was just nervous and freaked out about Daisy. He just wanted everything to be perfect for her. You could never really blame a man for trying, now could you? Gatsby exceeded at almost everything. I do want to bring out the importance of the word  _almost._ I did notice, although it was never that hard to see, that he had some trouble dealing with his emotions and controlling himself.

When he was angry, he was  _furious_ and that led to an outburst then to profuse apologies. When he was sad, he was downright  _depressed_ , drawing into himself behind the closed doors of his house. When he was in denial, he lost control of himself  _completely_ , this led to utter confusion and him just not knowing what to do with himself. When he was in love—well that much being obvious, leading to rooms filled to their brims with blossoms.

I've learnt not to blame or hold Tom accountable for intentionally throwing me under the bus, making sure I knew that I wasn't on the same level as everyone else. I may have been surprised and ashamed when Tom brought up my ' _money problems'_  at the table while we were all sitting at it. Jordon sighed, Daisy scolded him, I glared, Tom didn't care, and oddly enough I felt Jay's hand slide into and squeeze mine from under the table. I was confused at first when he did so, looking at him in question for his current gesture. He hadn't let go.

He looked into my eyes and gestured to the death grip my white knuckles had on a fork from a dining set that cost half that of my paycheck. I realized he was trying to calm me. I was shocked, I hadn't realized I was angry, and was surprised that he was able to notice and understand. I let the utensil slip from my fingers and fall on the table cloth that was maybe 40, about half my rent. He had brought my hand to his lap where he stroked it gently for the rest of dinner.

He was first to get up from the table later on, saying how we had to get some rest and that we both had a lunch regarding Walter Chase and business early tomorrow morning, one that I never knew existed. He said goodbyes, enough for the both of us because I was still baffled. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and talked loudly of lies of business Walter Chase was involved in with the both of us, making sure that Tom overheard every word until we were out of earshot. He cut off midsentence and didn't say anything more until we got into his car and were long into driving. Gatsby kept his eyes on the road casually, while I just couldn't stop staring at him in what I hoped was disbelief. After a while longer, he turned and spoke, not taking account my expression.

"Daisy is a fine woman, don't you think so, old sport?"

"She's my cousin." I said, vaguely.

"Yes." he said and turned back to the road.

Then once again there was a silence between the two of us, all the way up until we reached West Egg and pulled into the entry of our driveways.

"Have a goodnight then." he said and moments later he was gone.

The next morning there was no lunch for business with said Walter Chase, nor did I even see Gatsby for two days after that. He watched me get in the cab for work on that second day from his window, he even gave me a thumbs up.

"That is ridiculous." I said to myself as I watched him smile to me from my cab.

"Excuse me?" The cab driver had huffed a response to my statement. "If you don't like the service, I recommend getting a job with enough money to get your own car. This is mine. You can ge-"

"No, no, it's fine." I waved him off hastily to quiet him and watched my neighbor make these lively gestures from his window.

I started to laugh, and he did too as he used his hand to imitate the nagging of the driver and the cab man's rotund appearance. By the time the cab was out of the driveway I was laughing hysterically, unable to will away my grin. As we got farther apart he waved goodbye to me, and I waved too until he was out of sight and I was well on my way to the city.

Even then at my desk, his ridiculous images from that window popped into my head and sent me into random fits in which I got scolded at by my co-workers and had to make snickering apologies to my clients on the telephone.

Partly having a good day at work, and mostly being in an artificial happy carelessness, I left early. For once in my life I wore a bright smile as I exited the second cab into my home where I discarded the empty suitcase with little interest. It landed somewhere I didn't know and I landed on my bed, just laughing and enjoying myself over apparently nothing. He watched me from his window, and he might've smiled too because I did and couldn't stop.

I didn't frown again until later on when a servant came to my door and gave me an envelope. I took it but he walked away in the middle of my thank you. I shrugged, still smiling and that's when I sat down in a chair next to my window and opened it. It- just like Daisy's voice- was full of money. I frowned then, and looking down on me and noticing that I was, so did he. I locked eyes with him and that blank, bewildered expression from some three nights ago in the car was back on me. He drew his curtains first, before I could even think to draw mine.

Then I frowned for the rest of the afternoon, faking my smile when we locked eyes again the next morning as I once again got in a cab. With the envelope shifting around in my briefcase, I nodded to him. He held a hand up against the glass to silence me, and then grasped his own hands together briefly. I didn't understand before, but I did then. I wore a neutral expression from then on, calmly speaking off Tom when he tried to lower standards of me and politely refusing Daisy's hospitality, kissing Jordan in front of all of them just because I could, showing that I had her nonetheless of anything else. That one day we all made use of Gatsby's beach, in my new sunglasses, he clinked his glass to mine and I sat back in the chair and nodded as I turned to watch Daisy and Jordan get into a childish splash fight. I smiled and he saw, then we both did.

At this insane hour, on this soon to be insane night, I was awoken by frantic screaming and close to psychotic banging on my front door. I panicked at first.

"Nick—old sport— Open the—"

The rest was drowned out by knocking against wood. Was that Gatsby? I tossed off the sheets and stood beside my bed. His distressed yells scared me slightly, and I wondered for a moment if I should even open the door in the first place but this was already decided for me as I started walking towards his shouting.

I had no idea what was happening behind that door and he sounded as if he were about to be killed. He called loudly and full of desperation, screaming slightly quieter than bloody murder.

It didn't take long for the panic to build in me as well. My old clock tumbled off the mantle from when I rushed passed it.

I fumbled with the locks, the task being only slightly more difficult with the clattering of the door and my shaky hands. It came open nonetheless.

"Jay, are you alright?" I grabbed his shoulders, wrinkling the soft fabric of his gray suit. He didn't answer me. "Are you hurt?"

He shoved my hands away from him, respectively and pushed me aside. He stormed in, right past me.

I was left still staring out the door until I brought myself to close it. It's not like this hasn't happened before, him barging in on me like that. This didn't come as a surprise at all. It amazed me how he was always the highlight of my day, honestly when he wasn't a part of my day, the day was almost always not worth mentioning.

Finding the man in my home was proving difficult. He wasn't in the living room, and no sight of him in the kitchen or in the hall or bathroom. More bewildered than he's ever made me before and half excited to find out what this was all about, I started to double check all the rooms' aforementioned, in places where I thought he could fit or hide if he was trying.

After a while of searching for Gatsby, I eventually gave up. He probably went home out the back door or something, so I soon found myself flopping on the couch.

It was then that I started to regret not going after him. Who could have known? He could have been running from Wolfsheim and those shifty men of his.

I still felt uneasy after trying to convince myself that everything was fine, seeing it as a bad lie I kept telling myself over and over. I decided it would be best to go find my neighbor before someone else did.

I was almost out the door when I heard the sound of something hitting wood and then a forced silence. I backed up and went into my room, eyes darting over the fallen clock on my bedroom floor and then up to Gatsby who was sitting in my bed.

"Jay?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't fix the clock on my own this time. They'll be another one handed to you immediately in the morning."

"Clock?" I asked, that being the only word to come to mind.

Gatsby pointed to the clock on my throw rug. "Apologies."

"I don't care about that clock."

"You don't? I thought you loved that clock, old sport. It's such a splendid clock."

"It's just a clock."

"And I suppose we're all just people too." He replied bitterly, twisting his cane in his hands.

I shrugged and sat down on my bed beside him. "Are you alright?"

"Pardon?"

My lip twisted a bit and I clarified. "I said, are you alright?" He wasn't even looking at me but trying to look past me.

"Oh yes. Fine, Nick. Very fine." He said, craning his head to investigate what lay beyond my bedroom window.

"Would you like me to move?"

"Move, old sport?"

"Yes, it doesn't look like you can see through me." I suggested.

"See through you? Nick." Gatsby put his hand on my back, attentively. "I could never see through you. You're too good a man."

"Really."

"Yes, of course. One of the best."

"Well thank you; no one's ever said something like that to me before."

"I can't imagine why." He told me. "You truly are a great man, one of a kind even."

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Hardly. I'm no different than any other man, but you are." Somehow I felt that compliment actually offended him in some way.

He didn't try to respond to it, so I had to carry on the conversation before the growing silence swallowed us both whole.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

He didn't look up and I saw him try to open his mouth only to close it right back.

"Apologies-" He stammered. "I'm not feeling-"

"We all have bad days."

"It's just that the light's gone from me, old sport. And I'm afraid I'll never get it back."

"The light?"

"Yes." Gatsby confirmed and then there was a silence between us as I thought.

I decided to humor him. "Well, do you have any idea of where it might've gone?"

"No," He glared at me suddenly. "That's why I came over to you, I think."

"Oh."

"I need your help. Daisy, she just doesn't understand. You can make her understand, old sport. "

"I can? Why me?"

"Well you've said it yourself Nick, you are her cousin. You're closest to her by blood. That's the closest anyone could ever be to a person."

"Not always," I told him. "I'm not particularly close to my family. I'm not even that close to Daisy really."

"She adores you." He argued. "Always talks about you, old sport."

"That doesn't necessarily mean that I'm close to her."

"Yes it does." He shook his head, not understanding. "I never once mentioned my family since." He didn't say since what, but I didn't feel the need to question him. "But the light is still gone, Nick. I can't see it anymore."

I was still convinced he was speaking metaphorically as opposed to physically, so I thought he had meant he couldn't see the significance in it anymore. "Why don't you look harder?"

He stood up at once. "I didn't come over here to be made fun of."

"I wasn't trying to make fun of you, Jay. It's just a light no matter what the significance you see in it. If you really want Daisy to understand you just have to talk to her."

"God, do you hear yourself?" Gatsby scoffed, trying with great difficulty to look out the window. Finally he just went around me and over to it, straining to find something in the dark that wasn't there.

I sighed. "What do you want to do?"

"I want it back. I want what Daisy and I once had together. I need to see the light again."

"Why?" That really was the only word on my mind, and Gatsby didn't make anything any clearer.

"Because it's mine!" He snapped at me. "And he controls it!"

"You mean Tom?"

"He's taken everything- Daisy, now the light...!"

"Jay, that light belongs to Tom and Daisy. It burns all night, every night, at the end of their dock." I explained.

"But not tonight."

I shrugged at him. "Maybe they turned it off. They'll probably turn it back on to-morrow."

"Call them." He said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Call them, tell them to turn it back on." He said, his back to me.

"Gatsby, I can't just-"

"Please,  _please,_ old sport. I  _need_ that light. It's the only thing that I've-" Gatsby stopped, and tapped on the window to where the light used to be. "I need it back."

I nodded. "Alright…alright, I'll  _call_ , but please, while I'm doing this, do whatever it is you need to do to help yourself."

He nodded and I left the room to make the call. I heard the water start to run, and the bathroom door shut. I turned to dial the numbers with heavy fingers, wondering myself just what on earth I was doing or what I would even  _say_ to the Buchanan's at three o'clock in the morning regarding the disappearance of Gatsby's  _green light_.


End file.
